“Perhaps not; yet if none of them knew you, and you had claimed to be Eloise, they would never have dared to hold you prisoner.”

“I never once thought of that; the only thing which occurred to me was how I could best protect the others.  My plan was to send them warning in some way.  Still, now I am very glad I said I was Rene.”

“Glad! why?”

“Because it seems it is Eloise they must find to serve their papers on.  They dare not take away the slaves until this is done.  As for me, I am nothing—­nothing but a slave myself; is that not true?”

To look into her eyes, her face, and answer was a hard task, yet one I saw no way to evade.

“Yes; I am afraid it is true.”

“And—­and then Delia, the housekeeper, is actually my mother?”

“That is the story, as it has reached me.”

She held tightly to the table for support, all the fresh color deserting her face, but the lips were firmly set and her head remained as proudly poised as ever above the round throat.  Whatever might be the stain of alien blood in her veins, she was still a Beaucaire.  Her eyes, filled with pain as they were, met mine unflinchingly.

“And—­and knowing all this, convinced of its truth—­that—­that I am colored,” she faltered, doubtfully.  “You came here to help me?”

“I did; that can make no difference now.”

“No difference!  Why do you say that?  Are you from the North, an Abolitionist?”

“No; at least I have never been called one or so thought of myself.  I have never believed in slavery, yet I was born in a southern state.  In this case I merely look upon you as a woman—­as one of my own class.  It—­it does not seem as though I could ever consider you in any other way.  You must believe this.”

“Believe it!  Why you and I are caught in the same net.  I am a slave to be sold to the highest bidder; and you—­you have killed a man to save me.  Even if I was willing to remain and face my fate, I could not now, for that would mean you must suffer.  And—­and you have done this for me.”

My eyes dropped to the upturned face of Kirby on which the rays of light rested.  The flesh was no longer black and horrid, yet remained ghastly enough to increase my belief that the man was actually dead—­had perished under my hand.  He was not a pleasant sight to contemplate, flung as he had been in a shapeless heap, and the sight brought home to me anew the necessity of escape before those others of his party could learn what had occurred.

“From whatever reason the deed was done,” I said, steadying my voice, “we must now face the consequences.  As you say, it is true we both alike have reason to fear the law if caught.  Flight is our only recourse.  Will you go with me?  Will you trust me?”

“Go—­go with you?  Where?”

“First across the river into Illinois; there is no possible safety here.  Once over yonder we shall, at least, have time in which to think out the proper course, to plan what shall be best to do.  In a way your danger is even more serious than mine.  I have not been seen—­even Kirby had no glimpse of my face—­and might never be identified with the death of this man.  But you will become a fugitive slave and could be hunted down anywhere this side of Canada.”